Blind Charlie's Corner

By Timothy P. Banse

Cannibalism or Murder?

A Rock and Roll Supergroup are on its way to a gig in Boston.

A wicked Nor'Easter snowstorm rolls into New England.

The band's charter plane crashes into the side of a mountain miles from nowhere.

Two band members, thrown from the wreckage in the bitter cold, survive.

One dies mysteriously in the wilderness of unexplained trauma.

"Snow blanketed the New England white birch and pine trees. There is no doubt Dangerous Dave knew better than to do what he was about to do."

Set in New England during a wicked snowstorm, a small plane with a rock band on its way to their next gig in Boston crashes into the mountains and burns to a crisp. Two band members, thrown clear of the aircraft, survive. But when rescue crews locate the wreck, only one man was still alive. To hear survivor Mike Watts tell the story, he consumed the flesh of fellow survivor, Blind Charlie, in order to avoid starving to death in the wilderness. Watts tearfully recounted how Charlie had died of his injuries the first night.

Detective Kurt Donner, assigned to the gruesome case, must figure out whether the cannibalism was motivated by a strong will to survive or whether was it a cold-blooded murder intended to hide evidence. And in order to do that, he must first determine why the survivor died after having survived the crash. Donner is dismayed by the lack of evidence until his chance to discover a spent cartridge case at the crash scene. Had the cannibalized band member reached up from the grave to leave a clue that the investigating Detective Donner could use to solve the crime?

Walk in the shoes of Detective Kurt Donner as he unravels the mystery. Be by his side when he himself is implicated in an old, unsolved backwoods crime.

Click the Buy Now button and help Donner unravel this horrific crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Middle Coast Publishing
• Release date: Feb 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215816752

Book preview

Chapter One

Ther is no doubt Dangerous Dave knew better than to do what he was about to do.

The wicked Nor'easter had already dumped a foot of wet snow on the slopes near Burlington, Vermont. So naturally, it followed all the New England ski lodge owners were rubbing their hands together in glee in anticipation of all the pending business. Cold, white gold.

But while the blanket of heavy snow was welcome news for Stowe's downhill skiers, the winter storm was not good news for the veteran pilot, Dangerous Dave Pieczysnki. Visibility was severely limited at the Podunk FOB, where his plane sat on the tarmac being fueled. The ceiling was low, less than 500 feet. On the other hand, the instrument-rated pilot had logged many thousands of hours in the seat of his de Havilland Beaver, a lot of that time as a bush pilot out of Fairbanks, Alaska, flying in inclement Arctic weather. So far, he had only crash-landed twice.

The one nagging complication with the wicked weather was that the rock group he had been hired by to ferry around New England from gig to gig positively had to be in Boston later that night for its sold-out concert.

Gotta be there, Blind Charlie, the leader of the band, told Dave. Got to, he demanded.

Performing due diligence, the pilot dutifully phoned the Federal Aviation Administration to gain insight into the situation. The news on the weather was not good.

Are you nuts? said the FAA guy in the tower. Nobody in their right mind flies in this weather. You, of all people, know what could happen.

Yes, Dangerous Dave knew all about old pilots and bold pilots. He had sorrowfully attended more than one closed casket funeral service for a fellow aviator who had suffered a fatal case of what pilots not so affectionately refer to as: Got-to-get-there-itis.

No go, repeated Dangerous Dave, shaking his head stubbornly.

But our gig, man, implored Blind Charlie. Boston.

Dave shook his head no for a third time, pointing to the overcast sky dumping snow on the tarmac like there was no tomorrow. We fly. We die. No go.

Blind Charlie's voice took on a somber tone. You fly, you sumbitch, or I sue you for every dime you have, including that clunker of an airplane.

Blind Charlie threatened and cajoled, lawsuits, Yelp reviews, any threat he could think of.

Finally, Dave relented. Get in, he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the plane, hoping he wouldn't come to regret his decision.

By the time the musicians stowed drums, guitars, and other gear on the plane, it was dark.

The band was none other than the nearly famous Blind Charlie's Corner. They were destined for fame! That message was trumpeted in newspapers and fan magazines around the world. Rolling Stone loved them, often said good things about them, parroting word for word exactly what the promoter had paid them to say.

Dangerous Dave dutifully went through the startup procedure just as he had done a thousand times before.

Pre-flight checklist completed, poised on the apron of the runway, Dave planted both feet hard on the rudder pedals, which did double duty as brakes, locking the plane in position. An ear cocked to the roar of the engine. He advanced the controls of the big, nine-cylinder Pratt & Whitney Wasp Jr. Radial to wide-open-throttle. The plane strained, trying to move forward. It did not budge. Satisfied the 450-horsepower engine was running like a well-oiled machine, he dropped rpm to idle and radioed the tower for takeoff clearance.

You nuts? This weather? crackled the astonished reply. We talked about this.

Yep. I'm going. Dave made a sideways glance at Blind Charlie strapped into the adjacent seat. Once again, he advanced the big radial to wide-open-throttle. Brakes off this time, the plane began to roll down the runway, slowly at first but inexorably picking up ground speed.

Your flight plan, you never filed a flight plan! complained the guy in the tower.

No time to waste. I am going.

Yeah, but with this weather, you know full well . . .

Interrupting, Dave said, I'm instrument rated. I trust my instruments. Dave turned off the radio, cutting off any further contact with the tower.

We'll be flying blind, said Charlie, grinning.

Dave ignored the comment, not realizing the reference to Charlie's hit song.

As the wheels crossed the expansion joints in the concrete runway, they tick-tick, tick-ticked. Picking up speed, the tick-ticking came faster and faster, stopping altogether as the Beaver lifted off the ground and lumbered into the night sky.

The Beaver labored to gain altitude: 1,000 feet above ground level, 2000 feet, and climbing, only barely. Textbook rate of climb for the de Havilland Beaver was about 1,000 feet per minute. But on this climb out, in foul weather, they were barely managing 300 feet per minute, as dreadfully slow as an old Douglas C-47 troop plane.

Once at altitude, the plane struggled to stay in the air. Keeping the wings straight and level was a struggle.

About ten minutes into the flight, the aftermarket stall alarm started screaming bloody murder, alerting the pilot that the plane was no longer flying, that it was falling from the sky. No need for the stall alarm. Dave already knew they were in trouble from the frightening loss of altitude he could feel in the seat of his pants and see with his own eyes rapidly spinning towards zero on the altimeter.

Happy now, you stupid sumbitch, said Dave angrily to Blind Charlie.

Do something, man, cried out a terrified, Blind Charlie.

Having fallen to nearly ground level, Dave switched on the landing light and shouted, Going to try to crash land.

Illuminated in the brilliant loom of a couple of million candlepower landing lights, Dave was startled to see a stand of tall pine trees with a big, wooden barn right behind it, smack dab in his flight path. Bad news, he muttered to himself.

From flight training, he knew exactly what to do. Long ago, his flight instructor had rather sagely advised, In a forced landing, if you don't like what you see when you turn on the landing light, turn it back off.

Without a word, Dangerous did. We are screwed, utterly and completely, he muttered, closing his eyes, bracing for the world of hurt he knew was coming.

Dangerous Dave had disobeyed the laws of physics, and for his mortal sin, he was about to be severely punished.

A moment later, the Beaver made brutal contact with a series of immovable objects. Tree limbs ripped off the rear stabilizer and left it hanging in the branches like an oversize Christmas tree ornament. With an earth-shattering smash, the plane slammed into the side of the barn. Boards and beams splintered and flew through the air like there had been an explosion. Both wings sheared off at their roots, like a kid pulling the wings off a bug. Both wingtip fuel tanks ruptured and spilled many gallons of AvGas. Disemboweled by barn boards, the belly tank split open, spilling more fuel.

When the broken airplane came to rest in the haymow, it was quite dead.

Chapter Two

A wicked Nor'easter was dumping a mountain of wet snow across the length and breadth of New England.

Detective Kurt Donner was suffering from cabin fever, SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, as the police psychiatrist called it. He was, as they say, climbing the walls with boredom.

Donner owned a Fire Cracker Red, 4-Wheel Drive Jeep Wrangler. Unlike mere All Wheel Drive Jeeps, his boasted true all-weather capability. Bad roads, snow, and ice were never a problem. So he decided to go out for a beer. One and only one beer.

The Buttercup was a rundown, towny bar that reeked of stale beer and loneliness. Its worn-out bar stools leaked stuffing onto the floor, where the fabric mixed with cigarette butts and tracked-in dirt. The edges of the bar top were worn smooth from decades worth of drunks with liquor-softened gums rubbing anxious elbows while guarding a mug of beer like an inmate zealously guarded his tray of food in the joint.

So far as he knew, not a soul in the Buttercup knew Donner or what he did for a living. He found comfort in that anonymity. It was one of his cardinal rules in life to never spend time in any establishment where anyone knew